


The Colors of Murder

by Sculptured_Ivy



Category: Clue (1985), Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: 1950s, Clue AU, F/M, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 03:12:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4771325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sculptured_Ivy/pseuds/Sculptured_Ivy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blackmail forces six guests to don colored aliases and venture into a mysterious New England mansion. But it is going to be a long night as they find themselves trapped in the house with a murderer in hiding.</p>
<p>Who is this killer? A hero? A psychopath?</p>
<p>What weapon did he use? Where will it happen next?</p>
<p>On this oh-so typical dark and stormy night, our ten possible victims will try to survive rolling hours and deduce who this mysterious murderer could be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Colors of Murder

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! Thank you for your patience these past several weeks. I realize that this is a bit of a clumsy chapter, but I really didn't want to keep you waiting any longer. Quite frankly, if I don't get started now I'm not sure how much longer this story would take.
> 
> Obviously I had a great experience watching 1985's "Clue." It almost instantly became one of my new favorite movies. That being said, what else could I do but thrust these characters into such a quirky and intense situation?
> 
> I will also be posting concept art on my DeviantArt account here ---- > http://sculptured-ivy.deviantart.com 

###  Chapter 1: Questions 

Who? What? Where? and Why?

These are the questions that serve to create a million and one more. They serve as liberators to the naive and agitators to the practiced; living to create temptations of simplicity whilst spinning webs of hopeless confusion in the nightscape of treachery.

She was well aware of this, but one can only stand to tease the game of cat and mouse for so long. The sheer tenacity of the situation caused the letter to crumple in her gloved hands, buckling like weak knees and splitting like frail ends of hair.

Something was going to snap; the lock of the door, the branches in the wind, the tumults of rain from the gloomy clouds, the fear that plagued her mind. It was just a matter of time. Hit and run. Cat and mouse. Snap and trap.

If only time would freeze. If only the clock would rewind itself to brighter, sunnier days. Before the fear, before the hurt . . . before everything.

###### 

Sunlight spilled through the glass tiles of the conservatory, flooding the room in golden light and drowning its inhabitants in the new summertime warmth. A cluster of Sunset palms tentatively curved beneath the iron bars that framed the building, all flanked by burgeoning hibiscus and knots of exotic grasses. Beneath were several mahogany tables littered with the latest trends in American literature, leaving little room to anything else (and leaving one to wonder how such a small girl could have brought them all with only one bag!).

Pages crackled and snapped under the delicate, polished fingers of the lady in white. Her eyes restlessly circled the text in such a way that implied a great deal of unspoken strife. She looked respectable enough, to say the least; her crossed ankles displayed a pair of leather kitten heels that matched her tulle sundress and suede tilt hat, all of which were very fashionable. Of course, this was only expected of the Lady Sumner as she made a point to sport the finest quality wardrobe and wear it with such grace that would put any Chanel model to shame.

No, it wasn’t her appearance that was off-putting, but rather her romantic mind which strayed to the angels above, or more likely cherubs with cruel laughs, that kept her from bottling the sunshine and giving it to her sister.

Her companion absentmindedly swirled a spoon through the chamomile tea, appearing to be weighed down by her inky blue chiffon dress, one that previously had been her favorite. It bore its age rather gracefully, but could not hide the hunched figure shadowing the bits of dappled light. The bed of hair atop her head, while short and clean, boasted more wild locks than usual. The lady noted to herself that it didn’t look as springy as it did disheveled, which was most likely a newly acquired trait. Dusky purple lined her sister’s narrowed eyes that hadn’t strayed from the ground. There was a lack of fire them, no gold in those hazel depths that beckoned warmth or spirit. Instead she gnawed at her lip, quiet and pensive for the first time in many months.

“Marianne?” the lady finally whispered.

Eyelashes fluttering, as if from a trance, her sister turned to Dawn expectantly.

“Are you . . . do you want a different flavor of tea?” She smiled tentatively, unsure whether or not asking personal questions would yield the same reaction as the last time.

“I haven’t finished my cup.” Marianne responded, still spinning the tepid liquid.

“Right . . .” Dawn’s lips grew thin. “Anyway, you said this was important?”

She nodded her head and put the spoon down. “Mm, important that I tell you, but not an important matter.” Her back straightened and she held her head up, the proper posture for a lady, but her eyes remained dull. “I won’t be able to make our next weekly tea.”

Dawn blinked. “Oh?”

“I’m sorry to say that some plans came up.” She looked away. “They were rather unexpected.”

Dawn laughed a little. “I suppose I should have expected it to happen sometime.”

She cocked her eyebrow. “You expected the unexpected to happen?”

“Well, if you include the hundreds of ways you managed to distract the etiquette professor to ditch for shop or theatre classes then there might be some cause for that.”

Her sister smiled a little at that, but couldn’t find the words to respond.

Dawn anxiously continued, “Remember when you managed to get the band to play Shake, Rattle, and Roll at one of daddy’s dinner parties?”

Marianne smirked. “I thought we agreed that the drummer’s fingers just happened to slip and by accidentally threw off the whole song off beat.”

She laughed. “Oh! But it was daddy’s favorite song! It was boring everyone to tears.”

“The same song that had you dancing with Aaron?”

She scoffed, “It definitely wasn’t Aaron. I hadn’t seen him since the beginning of high school.”

“Was is Benjamin then?”

“No.”

“Or Charles?”

Dawn groaned.

Marianne’s smile grew. “How about Geremy, Gordon, or Herbert?”

“No, no, and _certainly_ not.”

“Ian? James? Kevin? Matthew? Lawrence?” At this point Marianne was just spitting out names, and laughing beside herself, much to Dawn’s delight and dismay. “Matthew? Mark? Nicholas? Oscar?”

“I would _win_ an Oscar if I pretended to like that guy!”

“Peter then? Or Randy? Or Roland -”

The room went quiet.

“No, no . . .” Dawn whispered nervously. “Certainly not him . . . not ever. I couldn’t possibly do that. I mean, I _could_ have, but . . . I mean he _was_ awfully attractive, but - but . . .”

The room went quiet again. Her sister’s hands were clenched and any traces of her smile had disappeared.

“I’m sorry, Marianne.” was all she could say.

“Don’t be.” She scoffed, mouth pressed in a hard line, arms crossed as she suddenly got up. Her dress swirled around her like a whirlwind circling a storm. “He was a shallow, power-hungry, chattering pig. I was . . .” She gritted her teeth and turned away from Dawn. “I was wasting my time.”

She bit her lip, trying to think of another topic to bring up, to calm her rage.

“So what are these plans of yours, anyway?” she finally asked.

Marianne turned around. “Excuse me?”

“Your plans?” Dawn raised her eyebrows.

“Oh.” Marianne suddenly looked extremely uncomfortable, as if they were walking back into the Spring Ball, fake smile included. “Uh . . . it’s nothing serious, Dawn. I just . . . it’s just . . . kind of . . .”

“What?”

“Personal.” she finished, grimacing.

“Personal.” Dawn repeated, unconvinced. Suddenly her eyes lit up. “ _Ooooooh_! Personal!”

Marianne frowned, already concerned about her sister’s interpretation.

“You’re going on a date!”

Marianne’s eyes practically popped out of her head. “Dawn - ! Date - ! How on Earth - ! Why - ?! NO! Definitely not.”

Of course, Dawn was lost in her own world with ideas on what to wear and how the weather would be and what kind of rings to look for.

“Dawn . . . Dawn.” Marianne was at a loss for words.

“But red is so your color! Oh! I saw the cutest poodle skirt the other day . . .”

“Dawn, I don’t even _like_ poodle skirts.”

“You’re right. We’re too old for that. Even if they are completely adorable.”

“Dawn, stop. It’s not a date.”

“Oh.” She paused. “Do you plan on going on a date then?”

“No.”

“Has anyone been asking?”

“No!” Marianne frowned. “Look, I’m not interested, okay?” She sighed. “I have to go anyway.”

“Why? It’s not even -”

“I just have to go. Okay? I should get ready before I hit the scene. Look sharp, you know?”

“Oh. Okay.” The lady watched her companion get her things together, nodding politely when she thanked her for the tea. “Wait, Marianne?”

Her sister didn’t seem to hear her, but she couldn’t find the courage to try again. Maybe it was better if some things were left unsaid.

So she watched her sister leave.

She wanted the clock to freeze, to rewind itself to brighter, sunnier days. Before the fear, before the hurt . . . before everything.  
_If only . . ._

###### 

Now here she was, standing outside of this dark, twisted version of her old home wondering whether or not to pursue such danger. Inside awaited a warm room and a group of strangers, or so the letter had said. A dinner under an alias with someone who held the key to her retribution; someone who had evidence, someone who could answer her questions.

Who? What? Where? and Why?

“Miss Scarlet. Your coat? I’ll set it right inside. Why don’t you make yourself at home?”

Her feet moved before her mind was made up, following the familiar patterns of a supposedly abandoned routine. The coat slipped off of her shoulders and she felt a draft rush down her back, prickling her skin. Could it have been the rain? or the sense of déjà vu upon the sight of her company? For it was precisely that moment when Miss Scarlet saw the lady in white for the first time that night.


End file.
